wash
by selfindulgentwriter
Summary: Robin has been captured by his worst nemesis - Slade. Kept as an apprentice, can he get away before he starts to let himself be brainwashed? sladin slash. dark.
1. I

**A/N: So, this is going to be a pretty long fic. It clocks in at about 130k words when completed. I plan to update regularly on Sundays, as the fic is already written, simply not posted yet. This is Slade/Robin slash, with a side of Star/Rob that doesn't come into the story much besides a canon backstory. As for the warnings, this fic is dark. Because I can't help myself. And graphic. Because I can't help myself! There's rape/violence/death etc etc etc so proceed responsibly. Slade is a bad person and Robin is at his mercy! That being said, I can't wait to share this fic with you. Comments are love!**

"So, do we have a _deal_?"

Slade's voice is cold and demanding. His face is as inscrutable as always behind the half-lit mask, an icy eye skewering Robin on the spot.

(Roast bird.)

The man towers, backlit by the screens showing the status of Robin's friends. Alive, for now. At Slade's pitiful version of mercy. Robin's fists clench and unclench in golden gloves. He doesn't notice.

He knows that Slade isn't offering him a real choice—they both know how he will answer. There's not one speck of Robin's soul that would let his friends be hurt in his place. There's not a bit of his mind that doubts Slade would kill them if he refused, if only out of spite. Fear makes Robin's heart quicken, fear for his friends and for himself, but not real fear.

Deep down, he believes he will survive. Everything else has worked out. Slade has been beaten before, and even his most twisted plan yet will fall to Robin's ingenuity (or Batman's, if it comes to that, which it won't.) The possibility of following Slade's orders forever is not one he can fully conceive nor one he tries to imagine, a horror lurking just below his pulsing blood.

"Yes," Robin says, and with a word he sells himself for the lives of his friends.

Slade grins like a shark behind his mask.

/

Robin wakes up and he doesn't remember where he is for the first five seconds, which are the best five seconds of his day. After that, the last thing he can recall is Slade leaning in, breath on his face—_Slade's alive after all_—and a piercing pain in his neck. Robin rubs it to find needle marks under his fingers.

Drugged. And god knows what else.

The drug that's giving him his killer headache, he surmises. It's not helped by the bright lights streaming in through his closed lids, and Robin shifts his body to put his hands over his eyes, only to realize with a shock that he's naked.

His eyes shoot open, fingers groping at the area over his eyes. He sighs in relief at his mask still nestled snugly under his brow, eyes opening under the white lids of the mask. Robin's right—he's completely naked under the rough sheet that covers him, white like the rest of the small room.

Which means Slade—_undressed him_—

Robin feels nauseous, wrapping the thin sheets around him. He goes through a mental inventory of his limbs, nothing more bruised than usual—he can remember the ones on his arms were gained from blocking Slade's blows, the ones on his thighs from falling to the ground and rolling. Nothing feels out of place, and he feels slightly better about it all.

It occurs to him that Slade won't give him back his Robin uniform, and he has to pinch his arm to get himself to sit up and his mind to work.

The room is small and a faded off-white that reflects the bright lights too much. Robin's mattress is shoved up against a corner, and he can feel the rough plaster behind him. There's an open door frame to his left, and he can see dirty tiles and a rusted sink through it. A bathroom. In front of him, a steel door locks him in.

It reminds him of Slade, for some reason.

He squeezes his eyes closed, centers himself. The situation, his friends' lives on the line, causes anxiety to pool in his belly, but he pushes it down. It's just another part of the life of a crimefighter, Batman has taught him. He'll have to find a way out of this by himself, without his friends; find a way to deactivate Slade's nanobots. But he can't fail. And until then, he'll have to play along, no matter how much the thought makes his gut curl with revulsion.

_Do it for your friends._

That, he can do. That's what he'll always do.

The door creaks, whirring gears giving warning before it opens. Robin pulls the sheet over his body with a squeak that he really hopes Slade doesn't hear as the door creaks open and the man appears.

From the floor, Slade towers even more, but Robin refuses to be intimidated. Even as he looks down to make sure his body is totally covered.

Slade throws something onto the floor. Robin peers over to see a white T-shirt and pants. "Get dressed," the man rumbles.

Robin looks up at him, momentarily confused; Slade doesn't move. "But I—Can't you . . ."

"Do you really want to test my patience so soon?" Slade says sharply. Robin fidgets awkwardly and then grabs the sheets and pulls them around himself to hide his body. He picks the clothes off the floor, eyes still on Slade, who stands as immovable as ever. He hurries into the unbarred bathroom to change.

The place is narrow, only a toilet and a sink; barely enough space to change in. He hurries, paranoid that Slade will appear in the doorway to watch him with his one merciless eye. The clothes are rough against his skin as he pulls them on, and there are no tags, just plain white fabric meant for exercise. It's the kind of thing he'd wear in the cave for training with Bruce.

Robin pulls it on hurriedly and slows his steps when he walks out the doorway. Slade stands there, passive and unmoving as ever. "Follow," he commands, and Robin winces at his own subservience even as his feet behind to move.

He follows Slade through white passages, the same type as his room—no windows. Robin purposefully moves more slowly than Slade until the man grabs the collar of his shirt and yanks him bodily forward, Robin wincing and stumbling.

"Don't play games with me," Slade warns. His hot breath is in Robin's face, Robin wincing and struggling against him. His hands pry at Slade's grip on his shirt, but to no avail—he never _was _able to get the much stronger man off of him once he had gotten a hold. Robin's left with a vicious glare, trying to bring up the contours of Batman's face in his mind to perfect it. "This is not the battlefield, boy. Here, I am your _master_, and I expect to be treated as such."

The declaration of control, of dominance, makes every ounce of Robin's brain lash out. "Fuck you." His face explodes with instant pain, and seconds later he's spitting blood on the ground while stars dance in front of his vision. Slade puts his hand down.

"I control the lives of your friends, remember?" he says silkily. "Is your dignity really the hill you want them to die on?"

Robin grits his teeth, now stained pink. Metal fills his mouth, but it's not entirely unwelcome; it's real, and alive, and fills him with adrenaline. His teeth grind, but he doesn't reply.

"Answer me," Slade says softly.

"No," Robin grinds out.

"No, _what_?"

_What? He can't mean . . ._

Robin grits his teeth, lip twisting to sneer at him. A horrible, evil man. His _rival_ and enemy in every sense of the word.

And here he is.

Forced to do everything he demands.

The weight of it seems to bear down on him, fist curling at his side and a hand clenching on Slade's gauntlet. Slade seems intent on making him _submit_, rubbing in his defeat. And yet he's right—there's nothing Robin wouldn't give for the life of his friends, not even his pride.

"_Master_," he spits. Blood stains the floor from his mouth.

"Good boy," Slade says smoothly, and Robin's anger hikes up another notch. Slade drops his shirt and spins on his heel, Robin stumbling to regain his footing. His face forms a snarl at Slade's back, but he doesn't protest as he moves along.

_I will get you, Slade, _he promises, as much to the man as to himself. _When this is all over, I will _end _your career as a criminal._ Slade marches on, oblivious to his thoughts, but they make Robin feel better. He's escaped more dangerous situations, and he'll escape this one.

Hopefully, a little voice in his head adds traitorously, and he squashes it like he wishes he could squash Slade.

The room that Slade settles on is just as blank as any other, the huge steel door towering over Robin. Slade takes off his glove to reveal what looks like a perfectly normal hand, scanning his thumb against the lock. Seconds later, the door is opening, Slade putting his hand on Robin's shoulder to pull him inside.

Robin shirks away from the touch, glaring, before giving his shoulder a shake and heading inside himself. The room is huge, at least by the standards of his own, and it has one obvious purpose: training. It smells new, though, not like the old-feet-sweat of used exercise rooms. He can see that the pads that line half of it wall to wall, the equipment and staves that sit at the edges.

"You're going to _train _me?"

"You are my apprentice," Slade explains, amused. "I don't intend to let you get away with _subpar_ skills."

The moniker sends angry itches down Robin's spine, but overall he actually feels – relieved? It could be worse, though what exactly worse would be he doesn't care to theorize about. He loathes Slade tell him what to do, but as long as he's _forced _to, getting a chance at fighting him is better than sitting around in his room. He shifts on his feet in preparation, though he stops when he sees Slade's gaze lingering on him.

It feels . . . uncomfortable, even though he can't see the man's face, like he's being evaluated and picked apart. Slade has a way of _always _making him feel small.

Slade makes his way across the floor, boots echoing on the weird material. Robin follows with shorter strides, adrenaline rearing in expectation as he wipes blood off his lips. Slade hands him a _bo_, one that, Robin notes, was made specifically for his height; it balances perfectly in his palm. Just like his clothes.

_How long has Slade been planning this? _The thought that it could have been so premeditated sends shudders down his spine, like so many things about Slade. He's not given time to think about it, however, because Slade's staff is coming straight at his head without any warning. Robin ducks, and they begin—

It's familiar, at first, the back and forth between them—almost as if they really _are _on the battlefield.

"Don't be stupid. More weight on your back foot," Slade says, infuriatingly casual as the side of his staff pushes Robin to the ground. His boot comes down on where Robin's chest would be as the boy spins out of the way, jumping back on his feet.

Robin can only stare in mild wonder and then anger as he realizes his enemy is correcting him—_training _him. "Don't tell me what to _do_!"

"I'm your _teacher _now, boy. Do as I say, and it might hurt _less_." He punctuates it with a searing feint and kick that leaves Robin gasping.

The next time a blow lands, Robin rocks onto his back foot and lets the force rattle through his bones.

This time, his shoulder isn't the only thing that smarts, and he has a feeling his pride will be taking more blows than he does in a sparring session with Starfire.

Except now, Slade's condescending voice tells him _exactly _what he did wrong every time he misses, every time one of Slade's glancing blows hits his skin.

There's something else, too, and Robin becomes more and more furious as he's straight up unable to hit Slade. The man seems to dodge too easily. Robin's blows always whip through the air millimeters from the man's body. It's not any different from his regular tangles with the man—here and now he is one on one, with no planning, against someone with documented metahuman abilities. It's the kind of opportunity he's wanted for _so long_, and he jumps to action with enthusiasm. It's quickly dimmed by frustration.

Slade twists and turns and dodges and moves like the wind. Robin's never remembered him this fast, this dangerous—this _lethal_. He curses and dodges, barely able to get hits in, the exhilaration of it all giving away to pure frustration.

_Why can't I HIT HIM? Was there something in the drug?_

Fights with Slade are the biggest challenge that Robin has ever faced in his short career as a hero, but now the challenge seems impossible.

"You drugged me," he says.

"Yes."

"Trying to train me in an _unfair fight_?"

Slade laughs lightly. "No fight is _fair._ The drugs aren't making you _weak_. I've just been holding back, my boy."

"I'm not"—Robin aims a nasty spinkick before flipping away; it glances off Slade's gauntlets—"your _boy_."

"Perhaps not yet," Slade admits.

With a yell of anger, Robin launches himself at him.

But failure makes him angry, and he struggles to control himself. He can't tell if the heat beading on his skin is from his anger or his exertion.

"Frustration is making you sloppy,," Slade says. His _bo _catches the side of Robin's leg as he charges, tripping him to the ground. Slade leans over his back. "Practice precision. Control yourself." His dialogue is nothing like the taunting of battle or his threats to Robin's friends; it is simply the commands of a teacher.

He sounds for all the world like Batman. _How dare he act like Bruce_.

"I do what you say because you're blackmailing me, _Slade_. That doesn't mean we have any—any _real_ relationship."

Robin grunts in anger, pulling himself forward embarrassingly across the floor. He jumps up and spins on Slade. Now anger really has flushed his face.

"You will still obey me when I train you, boy."

Robin stalks him in a circle, eyes fixed on Slade's mask. Slade moves in turn, orange and black bringing to mind a tiger ready to pounce—and Slade isn't tame like Selina. They stay that way, gazes flickering back and forth.

"Planning to make me better so I can finally beat you and save my friends?"

"You assume you would ever be able to win against me," Slade says, unbothered.

Robin feints to the left, sliding under and between Slade's legs at the last second. He's on his feet, swinging at Slade's back. The _bo _connects with the most beautiful sound in the world. Robin has to quell his small triumph, jumping back to avoid Slade's counterattack.

It's _something_. Something to show him that he can do this, a small way to exert influence. He grins in satisfaction. "Is that so!"

They go back and forth, Slade's cool voice making Robin furious enough to try and hit him. The rhythm is almost calming, reminiscent of the Batcave—sparring with Batman and Batgirl. It's familiar, if a bit painful when Slade gets in a good blow. He doesn't know how long they fight—much longer than any of their previous ones, much longer than any sparring session of his has gone before. Robin begins to wonder if or when Slade intends to end it, but he refuses to ask. He refuses to give his hated enemy the satisfaction.

His only measure of time is the pain that the exercise incurs. Robin's muscles ache, and he has to start correcting for their weakness in his strikes. Slade seems just as unflappable as when they began, moves conserved and strikes lethal.

"Pace yourself," he advises.

Robin glares at him. A gasp. "I know how to fight, Slade. I've learned from better."

He can almost hear Slade's derisive snort from across the room.

They continue.

Robin's breathing starts to come shorter and shorter. He has to pause between strikes to get more air in. Mouth open, he heaves in oxygen, but there's nothing to do but keep on fighting. He's not sure how long he pushes forward, locking his pain away in a small part of his mind where it can't make him less effective.

Slade is still as silent as ever.

They continue.

Robin's muscles go from aching to burning. His strikes are uncoordinated. He stops landing even the occasional one on Slade. His feet feel like they could collapse under him at any moment, and he keeps them under him with sheer force of will.

Slade is still as fast as ever.

They continue.

Sweat pours down the back of Robin's neck. Rivulets stream down his face and he can't help but think, vaguely, that the gel must be washing out. It tastes bitter on his tongue. He can feel his pants sticking uncomfortably to his legs when he moves.

Slade is still as strong as ever.

They continue.

Robin's knuckles are white as he spins and slashes with his staff. He can feel his hands shaking. White dots dance in front of his vision like stars. Every time he swallows his throat rasps. The back of his throat and his ears ache. He desperately wants nothing more than to lay down on the ground and pull in air like a drowning man, soothing muscles that are now on fire.

Instead, he pulls on every inch of his will to keep on fighting like his life depends on it. The imagination gives him a burst of adrenaline; he blocks a blow by Slade and retaliates with a vicious jab at his legs. Robin jumps.

He catches the bottom of his foot on the staff. Robin falls backwards with a grunt as the wind is knocked out of him. He lays there, foot throbbing, wheezing up at the ceiling. Slade's staff finds its way to his neck.

Just a reminder that Slade has gotten the killing blow this round.

Robin grimaces, his exhaustion dulling the loss of his pride at losing. He rasps through his nose, still unable to speak—not for lack of trying.

"Get up," Slade says. The staff leaves Robin's neck.

Robin stares at the tiled ceiling for one more second.

Slade kicks him, hard, in the ribs. Robin lets out a yell as he's flipped to his side, gasping at the new pressure on his lungs. "Wha-!"

"I gave you an order."

Robin makes a spitting motion to the side as he turns and slowly rights himself on his hands and knees. Getting to his feet is more painful now that he's lain on the blessedly soft ground. He presses the pain down. There are any number of protestations he could make, a thousand reasons why this isn't fair—but that would require admitting weakness.

And you _never _let enemies see your weak spot.

Robin stands and glares defiantly, rubbing his ribs. Not cracked, but he's all too aware that Slade's steel-toed boots could easily have shattered bone. The idea that Slade might be going easy on him makes him sick, but that might just be the nausea from exertion.

Slade attacks, again and again, and this time all Robin can do is dodge. Attacks are met with more pain, and parrying sends shockwaves down his arms that threaten to knock him over. Pain defines every rasping breath he takes, exhaustion threatening to make him keel over whenever he moves too much on one side.

His eyes are filled with the same fury for Slade as always, even as his most common jumpkicks degrade and he has to resort to more ranged attacks. Slade seems to have somehow infinite stamina, moving faster than ever, blows hitting harder.

Robin goes down for the second time when he fails a kick he should have known better than to attempt. Slade grabs his ankle. Robin hits the floor on his bruised rib and lets out a yell he can't hold back, almost on his stomach in pain. The mat smells like new as he takes wheezing breaths.

"Get up," Slade says.

Robin tries to move but everything _hurts _and he has to anyways. He heaves himself to his knees, almost falling over from the dizziness. He stumbles on unsteady feet, coughing.

He lasts two moves before Slade slams him bodily into the mat. Robin feels his nose crunch and start to bleed, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. It smears on the floor. Robin watches it drip, trying to move.

"Get up," Slade drones, fuzzy and hard to hear.

Robin gasps with the pain of it, barely able to push himself to his knees. Blood pounds like drums in his ears, in time with his frantically racing pulse, heart trying to bring blood to every corner of his body. He's on his feet. _Why is he doing this? What . . ._

He's on the floor, staring up at Slade's mask, right before a boot comes down on his wrist. Robin yells, louder this time, trying to pull it out from under Slade's shoe.

"Get up."

"I . . ." Robin's face burns. He feels sweat trail down the sides of his cheeks like tears. He tries to move desperately, scrabbling at the mat with his forearms. His wrist aches. Robin's up several inches. He's staring back up at the ceiling.

This blow to his ribs definitely cracks something. Robin chokes on a yell, turning to the side so he doesn't drown in his own saliva. _Can't he see-! I can't—_

"'thought this was supposed to be training," he rasps. "Not a _beating_."

"Oh, but it _is_," Slade says. His mask leers over Robin's face, somehow predatory despite only one visible eye. . "This is a lesson, _my boy_. A lesson on the very simple premise of our relationship."

Robin opens his mouth to respond, angry, and can manage only a pained, shallow gasp as Slade presses down on his chest. He leans into it this time, boot shining in the light of the room.

"You are my apprentice. I am your master." Robin glares up at the hated voice. "I require obedience, and I demand respect. This is my _due_. Because—" Robin gasps in air as the boot mercifully loosens on his chest "—I have won, and you have promised me my payment for having the _mercy_ not to end the lives of your friends."

"That's not—" Robin's voice is cut off in a yell as Slade's boot really does shatter something in him, a rib or two most likely, as he rolls again to the side. Pain shoots up through him, deeper in him than the time he broke his arm, too close to dangerous things. He tries to breathe, and it hurts. All he has are shallow gasps.

"I'm getting tired of your backtalk." Robin gasps up at him, pain pulsing in his chest like a deep bass drum, echoing in his ears. "Let me enlighten you as to your position. It seems not to have quite sunk in yet. Regardless of the status of your pitiful friends, you are here with me. There is nobody who is going to come to save you, and nobody who—to be quite frank—can hear you scream." He crouches down. "Except me, of course." Slade resumes his circling, Robin following him with narrowed eyes. "And I can do anything I want."

Is Slade trying to scare him? His voice sends shudders down Robin's spine, and yet—he's been fascinated by and dealing with Slade for years. He's not about to bow out now, even if Slade does have the momentary upper hand.

The only thing he fears is for the lives of his friends. _What happens to me doesn't matter_, he thinks, and the thought jolts him for a second. It's not that he doesn't feel fear, but . . .

Robin is sure now that there is very, very little he wouldn't do to save his friends. Why does he have the feeling that Slade is going to push him to that limit?

"But you _won't_," Robin says, absolutely certain of himself. "You won't kill me, and you won't hurt me _too _badly. I still have to be your 'apprentice'."

Still worryingly willing to hit him, though. The broken ribs that send spikes of pain every time he breathes attest to that.

"True," Slade muses, though Robin knows he's not oblivious to the air quotes. "However, I think you'll find there is a lot more between those two things than you would like to imagine."

His eye rakes Robin up and down in a way that makes him shudder despite the heat on his skin from the exercise. There's a subtext there that Robin will have to decipher later—but with Slade there's always subtext. That's why Robin thinks he's never really been able to let go of him, never gotten bored with poking at the layers like he has with so many other villains. Slade seems to sneer down at him as he paces.

Robin sticks out his foot.

It's a half second impulse to Slade's circling, a sweep that's he's known so many times before, anger making his foot move quickly. It smashes into Slade's steel toed boot with an almost painful noise. Robin winces, pulling back. Slade looks down.

He laughs, once, nastily.

"You never cease to entertain, do you?" Robin tries to struggle as Slade leans over, grabbing the collar of Robin's white t-shirt. He hauls him up. Robin thrashes, exhausted muscles trying to eke one more surge of adrenaline out of their situation before going limp.

Everything _hurts_. Slade's pulling up on him only puts more pressure on his ribs. Robin tastes blood. _That's bad. I know that's bad._

He faces Slade with all the resolve he still has, finding it still lingering in the back of his mind, to his appreciation. Slade's breath warms his face. His rasping mask fills Robin's ears. Robin's foot hurts.

"As far as you are concerned, former hero," Slade says softly, "_I own you_. Every part of you is mine, to do with as a I _wish_. You will call me Master, you will do as I say, you will not talk back, because you exist to serve me. If you pretend otherwise, you will be punished.

Today's lesson is that you _cannot win_."

"I will _never _stop being a hero," Robin says, a voice of complete and absolute assurance. Slade's punch hits him in the stomach, right on his broken ribs. Robin curls in a C shape around the gutting pain, unable to find the air to yell. Blood spatters Slade's mask. Robin realizes it's his own as he slumps, choking. Pain lances through every vein. _I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe_—

Robin gasps in a breath that tastes of metal. He hangs limply from Slade's one-handed grip. The back of his neck starts to ache from the fabric digging into it.

"Do you understand?" Slade asks.

Robin just stares. Blood trickles down his chin. He doesn't see the backhand coming, but he feels it reverberate through his skull. His neck snaps to the side, his mouth filling with blood. Pain blooms on the side of his face.

"Do you _understand_?"

"_Yes_," Robin snaps, too fast for his own liking. _I can hear you, Slade, _he bites back, and feels filthy.

_You can't fight if you're beaten half to death_, he reasons. It still stings.

"Yes . . . ?"

"Master," he spits.

"Good boy."

Robin does not feel fear.

(Not yet.)

What he does feel is the beginnings of an inky hatred blooming in his chest.


	2. II

"Lift your arms."

Robin stares distrustfully at Slade, every muscle tense—the ones that don't ache painfully, that is. He raises them, slowly. Slade moves over to the table that he sits at, towering over him. Robin grits his teeth in his shadow. The side of his face aches at the memory of pain. Slade still stands with the corded danger he always does, but for once in the time that Robin has seen him he isn't attacking, planning to attack, or even lurking in the shadows. He simply seems intent on his business.

Slade's fingers grip the bottom of his shirt. Robin has to hold back a flinch, but Slade only pulls it over his head with a swift movement, stinging the wounds. He hates the feeling of Slade's gloved hands brushing over his skin. Robin is too exhausted to shy away from the feeling, from Slade's eye taking in everything about him. The shirt goes on the table. Slade's fingers prod roughly at Robin's stomach and ribs, hitting sensitive areas that Robin can't help but make small noises of pain at.

Slade hums thoughtfully. Bandages wind around Robin's chest, taped and tied, cementing his fractured bones in place. He tries to ignore the casual intimacy of it, the thing that he and Babs would do before she got shot, or the kind of taking-care-of that Alfred does.

There's no chance of that relationship here. Robin knows better than to think _that_ after Slade beat him into submission. His cheek still aches. No, Slade just wants to make sure he doesn't heal so badly, his body that Slade "owns" isn't marred by crooked ribs. The man wants to keep him a perfect apprentice.

Robin seethes, silently, privately, and thinks of revenge.

/

Slade shoves him back in his room without—notably—feeding him. Robin tries not to aggravate his wounds as he collapses into bed—not tired, but exhausted bone-deep and aching. He knows it'll hurt more tomorrow, because these things always do. Robin can't help but try and begin to comb the walls for bugs, but he's left in the piercing darkness after five minutes and has to fumble his way awkwardly back to the hard cot. Slade is good at hiding whatever it is he uses to keep track of Robin—he always has been. Robin simply doesn't have the energy to find it tonight, even if the idea of Slade watching his every move keeps him up much longer than he should be and makes him more tired when Slade rudely wakes him up for training the next morning.

/

His face swells where Slade hit him—where Slade continues to hit him when he mouths off or doesn't do something fast enough or forgets the _master_. It makes him look deformed, he thinks, bruises standing out against the paling skin. Robin does his best to clean himself throughout the days, but there's only much he can do with the dirty water in the sink—though he didn't last before he gave in and drank it. His hair gel washes out soon enough, leaving the dark strands hanging down his face and making him look like a greasy ghoul. Dark circles form under his eyes from the sleep he isn't getting. Robin checks every day to see if he's getting noticeable skinnier, but his muscle mass seems stable so far, even if he's only fed intermittently.

He doesn't look the _same_, doesn't look like Robin, the Boy Wonder, the leader of the Teen Titans, Dick Grayson. Robin tries to shake off the feeling, a small thread in the back of his mind, but it refuses to go away and he's forced to simply shove it down and ignore it as best he can. Slade never calls him by his name, not Robin, just _boy_, as in _come here, boy_, _listen to me, boy_, _correct your stance, it's pathetic, boy, are you stupid, boy_.

"I am Robin," he says into the mirror, almost unfamiliar lips moving. The words come out small and tinny, but they make him feel better.

That is one thing Slade will never be able to take away from him.

/

Robin loses track of time painfully quickly after the first day. He tries his best to mark the days that pass in the darkness and piercing light of his room, but there's nothing at all to use. On the days when his training with Slade leaves him with open wounds, he uses them to make a mark. They're always gone when he comes back in the evening. Slade has a vested interest in keeping him off his balance and unsure, and Robin knows it all too well. A half-remembered segment on interrogation tactics crops up in his mind and he shudders at the other methods. Hopefully Slade won't—or the situation won't progress long enough—for the rest of them to be useful.

He heals quickly, he thinks. Some days he wakes up feeling rested but most he doesn't, others he stumbles out in a haze of tiredness and Slade calls him weak so many more times during training, taunting and hurting him.

/

Robin never does Slade's bidding happily, always glares and grunts and snarls, and he's pleased with the small bit of resistance. Slade is always keen to pull out the trigger and remind him of their deal when he gets too cocky, and all of Robin's resistance fades instantly. He tries not to think about his friends if only because he spirals into worry and fear because if there is one thing that he cannot, will not, will never abide it's the deaths of his friends. Slade doesn't feed him regularly and Robin doesn't get enough sleep—he can't figure out the schedule that Slade's keeping him on—and the constant exhaustion just makes it too easy to fall into line when Slade commands something. Robin fights back viciously in his mind whenever he feels himself slipping into apathy, letting his gaze flare up at Slade's or scowling at him.

He thinks about the _anything I want_, the sheer power that Slade has over him, and digging in too deep makes him shudder. It gives him motivation to try and plan a way out, at least, but—

-but Slade is insistent on stripping him of his free will and has all the tools he needs to functionally do it and no concept put into practice has ever really horrified Robin _this _much. It's a sick thing to do, Slade's sick—but Robin knew that.

Now he's just so much more devoted to bringing him down.

/

_What if you never—_

Robin shoves the thought to the bottom of his soul with such force that he almost feels sick.

/

Robin heals quick enough, even if he still can't really keep track of the days. Slade still doesn't go easy on him, even if he avoids the points where he could do the most damage to the cracked ribs.

Robin still doesn't win, can't even score hits some days as the hunger and isolation and sleeplessness bear down on him.

_I was going easy on you._

The patronizing words ring in his head, bounce back and forth in his brain. Slade is _so _much more impossible to win against than he ever was, and . . .

And.

Have Robin's attempts up until now been a _joke_? Slade, watching from behind the scenes, chuckling at Robin's _audacity_ believing he could challenge Slade, physically or mentally?

_He always has been one step ahead._ But this is something else, something crueler, like a cat playing with a mouse before snapping its neck. Now, he's telling Robin that his accomplishments—his only real accomplishments, the only ones he had to work for, to stay up nights for, to think and pace and hope for—came from nothing? Were _given _to him like Slade deigning in his oh-so-powerful state to throw Robin a _bone_? Robin doesn't want to believe it. The instance with Red X: he tricked Slade some, long enough, he's stopped Slade from his objectives before, beat the people that he sent after them. No, Slade can be beaten, beaten by Robin, because he has before. Before Slade knew him, before he was invested enough in their rivalry to bother to play with him.

The stakes now are just so, so much higher, and the odds are even less in his favor.

_That's what heroes _do.

They beat the odds.

/

"Again. This time, try and put some _effort_ into it."

Robin spins his staff to his other hand, stretching out reddened fingers. He's lucky that he has more energy today—he got a decent night's sleep and the more than usual of the flavorless mush Slade feeds him, or else he'd be keeling over from exhaustion: their usual end to the sparring sessions.

He takes several steps back, cocking back his foot to push off. Robin accelerates in two long strides, planting his staff on the padded floor. Seconds later he's flying through the air, over Slade's head. He lands with a shock, turning—slammed into the wall with a force to rattle bones. _Shit_.

Slade's body presses in on him, hand braced against the side of his neck. Robin winces as the side of his face digs into the wall. One arm is trapped between him and Slade's bulk, the other unable to find an angle to fight back.

"Too slow," Slade says contemptuously near his ear. Robin grimaces as the angle on his shoulder starts to smart. He can feel Slade's body heat—not covered in armor but for the mask, in a training outfit like his. It's sweaty and too-warm. "On your feet sooner. More momentum."

Robin sighs irritably.

He's pressed painfully into the stone, exhalation cut off with a grunt. Slade does so _hate _backtalk. Robin suffers every time, his shoulder angling uncomfortably—reminiscent of the time Slade twisted it two—three? days ago. He hisses through his teeth. "Do I need to repeat our earlier lesson?" he asks softly.

Robin grinds his teeth. Slade rubs his face in every single second of his forced servitude, a solid wall of muscle and danger pressing him down. Slade's fingers press against the back of his neck, rough callouses against the sensitive skin, surprisingly warm. His other hand presses into Robin's wrist, right on the pulse of his veins.

It's too close, too intimate, skin on skin, Slade pressing on him as if he wants swallow him up. Robin shudders and tries futilely to twist away before giving up and leaning against the cold wall, so different from Slade's heat.

"No, Master," Robin grinds out.

"Good," Slade says, right in his ear. Robin flinches, going tense, still unable to move, Slade's hand splays on his neck, palm pressing near his ear and pinkie spreading into his hair. Robin stays stock still at the movement and the contact and feels like a deer in the headlights. Something about this is . . . _not right_.

The second lingers.

Robin loses his patience, trying again to jerk away from Slade's hands. "I get it, okay? Now just—move away."

"No."

"Slade!" Robin shimmies his shoulders and tries to move his neck to get away from the now burning body heat. He can feel Slade's breath on his ear, rasping sharply, every inch of the man against him but _especially _his hands, all sending itches under his skin. He struggles more desperately this time before going limp. _What the hell?_

Just when he thinks he can't take it anymore, Slade moves away. Robin's shoulder moves back into place instantly, burning with pain, but the relief of getting Slade _off _of him outweighs it by much. Robin can't see the expression on Slade's face at all. _What is he thinking_?

Robin scratches and rubs at the back of his neck and his sore wrist. He wants to get Slade's sickly warm touch off of his skin but it lingers despite his best efforts. Robin can still feel the fingers on the back of his neck as he scratches viciously, unsure quite what urge he's fulfilling but recognizing its sheer intensity all the same. Slade still regards him with one eye, emotion inscrutable. Robin moves to a defensive posture on instinct, but the man turns.

"We're finished," he says, and that's the end of that.

/

Robin dreams of Slade holding him down in the darkness while he thrashes. He wakes up with his fists in the sheets, shuddering and sweat through. He doesn't remember in the morning.

/

Robin knows that the day is different when Slade throws a skintight black bodysuit down instead of the regular white training clothes. It's one day he's actually managed to rest, and he wakes up feeling less fatigued than he has previously. He still goes to the bathroom to change, still staring at Slade as he gathers up the sheets. Slade just keeps an eye on him as usual as he trails into the bathroom. Robin slips easily into the—spandex? Probably a spandex-kevlar weave, high grade. It's just his size, and he shudders again at how much Slade seems to know, at Slade's fingers on his skin so he can learn.

More pressingly, he wants to know what Slade is going to have him do that requires such protective gear. It can't bode well. Slade has been known to hurt him badly without bothering with protective gear, so whatever inspires him can't be good.

Robin feels exposed in the tight material, but he always feels exposed when it comes to Slade and his gaze. The path they follow isn't the normal one to either the dining room or the training room. It's much longer, more winding and changing. Robin hears the deep whirring, the small background of the complex becoming louder and louder as they approach. The walls change from white to shallow grey before turning dark as they approach. Robin takes specific note of the path.

Slade taps in a longer code than usual before opening the huge steel door and passing through. Robin is lead into the biggest place he's seen in weeks, towering so far above he can't see the top. The cracks and edges hide in the darkness, overcast by the whirring, working gears. Some of them are larger than Robin, or even than Slade, casting monstrous shadows as they slowly spin. Robin stares around in something like awe. It's reminiscent of the Batcave, dark and dangerous, the edges blurring and falling away into nothing. He can feel the gears vibrating up through his feet and working through the bones in his chest.

Slade moves as if he's been here a thousand times and Robin moves absently in his footsteps, still dwarfed by the machinery. It's meant to intimidate, he assumes, as if Slade's figure, mask, and danger weren't enough. Robin wonders if it's for his benefit.

Then he sees the chair—the throne on the dais—and he can't help his eyebrows shooting up. It's intimidating, lurking high above them—and yet. Slade thinks he's some kind of king of his own complex. It would almost be a joke, if he didn't hold the lives of Robin's friends in his hands.

"See something you like?" Slade says, noticing his expression.

"All I see is pride," Robin tells him.

Slade laughs. "A bold sentiment for a small boy." Robin glares, almost turning red.

"I'm not a _boy_."

Slade hums. "We'll see, won't we?" He takes the steps to the throne, pulling something out of his black outfit. It's a small remote, not unlike the trigger he likes to pull out to threaten Robin with at every turn. At his behest, a large screen flickers on across from them. Blue light shines across the dark room, lighting up a smaller chair sitting at the row of screens. Robin stands trapped between them, looking at the bright blue.

"You've performed poorly in training so far," Slade says smoothly, voice just loud enough to be heard over the soft gears. "I think something else might be good for you." With a flick of his wrist, blueprints light up the screen in front of Robin. Robin stares, feeling small under the light, taking in every aspect anyways. Strangely . . . something about it looks familiar? Is it the plan to Slade's—no, he wouldn't show that to Robin.

"What's that?"

"That's the floorplan for the building that you're going to steal from," Slade says. Robin starts back, staring from the screen to Slade, features twisting into something ugly.

"Steal it yourself, _Slade_," is out of his mouth before he knows what he's saying as anger sets in. Slade's sinking low enough to force him into breaking the law for his own gain? No dice, as the Penguin is fond of saying.

"Boy," Slade says, perfectly dangerous, "come here."

"Are you crazy?" Robin asks. "You expect me to—"

He cuts off as he sees Slade dip into his belt, gloved hands coming out and caressing the trigger meant to kill his friends. Slade's eye gleams. Robin freezes, going stiff at the unspoken threat

"Come _here_."

Robin does, eyes trained fearfully on the trigger the whole time. Slade's fingers grip it in a vice, but as Robin comes to stand before the man—climbing his ostentatious but strangely intimidating dais in the process—he wonders how hard it would be to distract him and snatch it. His eyes linger, though he snaps them back to Slade.

It's not fast enough to see the vicious punch that knocks the wind out of him. Robin is left coughing on his knees on the dais, embarrassingly close to Slade's steel-toed leather boots. He's glad he can't see blood this time.

"I think you should have learned by now that you don't get to say no to me," Slade says calmly. "You always seem to forget about your friends. Do you need a—"

"No!" Robin says desperately, not even thinking of the consequences. "No, no—"

Slade kicks him with the disturbingly close steel-toed boots. Pain explodes in Robin's face. This time, blood from his nose spills down his upper lip as he barely manages to avoid bouncing down the dais steps.

"Do _not _interrupt me again," Slade warns. Robin grits his teeth, now pink with blood. He pinches his nose shut—thankfully, not broken. Robin is painfully aware that Slade could easily have kicked him harder. "If you disobey me, or fail to get this device, I _will _kill your so-called friends. And to be honest"—here, Robin can sense the cruel smile—"I can't say I wouldn't enjoy it. So don't temp me, hm?"

It begins to sink in that Robin doesn't have a choice here—_shocking_—and that what Slade is insistent on him doing is stealing. It's just like Slade to flex his power like this, ironic and cruel. _A hero protects his friends,_ Robin tells himself. _It's still heroism. It's not like I'm _killing _anyone._ The thought of Slade forcing him to kill someone is shoved to the very bottom of his mind the instant it appears.

_It won't come to that_.

Robin stands up, still holding onto his nose.

"Answer me."

"No," Robin says, teeth grinding in defeat. "Master." The humiliating words come out tinny from his pinched nose, something that would be perhaps funny in other circumstances.

"I'm glad we understand each other," Slade sneers. He passes Robin, going down the steps. Robin follows. He wipes blood on his thin suit, and it blends in with barely a gleam.

Slade pulls out a sheaf of papers from what seems to be his desk at the bottom of the bank of computers. Robin notes the pocked that he slips the controller into for further reference, right before he's looking down at the papers Slade hands him.

_Wayne Enterprises._

Robin can't help but choke when he sees the name, blood bubbling up in his throat. Some of it drips right onto the AY of WAYNE, smearing it slightly.

"Something the matter?" Slade asks casually.

Robin shakes his head instantly. "N-no. Just. Just that's a—pretty big company."

"Have you ever known me to think small?" Slade asks. Rhetorical, or at least Robin's going to pretend it is, lest the hated admittance of 'master' slip past his lips once again.

_Does he know? _Is all Robin can think. _He can't. There's no way. Bruce—Bruce keeps it all so . . . so secret. _Robin's heart pounds in his ears anyways and he tries to take deep breaths to calm himself, hoping Slade doesn't notice. _Coincidence. It's a coincidence._ _Don't react. _Thankfully, Slade seems intent on something else as Robin carefully turns the page.

What he sees are blueprints to the upper floors of the Wayne Industries towers—a little familiar, but something Robin hasn't actually memorized.

"Memorize it," Slade says. "I'll quiz you." The glint in his eye promises, as always, punishment for failure. Robin turns the page. On it is a real blueprint, this time of a gun based in—red Kryptonite? Robin isn't much of an engineer, but he'll know what to look for. "It's in a safe here." Slade takes a pen, roughly marking one of the sides of the map. "Hidden behind a painting." _Not good_, Robin thinks. _One of the worst things. Something capable of destruction in the wrong hands. _And no hands are more wrong than Slade's. "I expect you to retrieve it." A pause. "Or you can expect your ex-team to be down another member."

The paper in Robin's hand crumples halfway at the threat. He doesn't notice. "They're still my _team_, Sl—" He turns red as he realizes he's not willing to risk further punishment. "No matter what happens," he mutters.

"Really?" Slade asks. He looms over Robin. "You may think so, but how long will they? Will they keep their faith in their _great _leader mission after mission in my name? After years of criminal activity?" Robin pales. _A year_. "How long will your friends keep faith in their _former _leader? Even the most loyal have to give in sometime, hmm?"

"You're a _fool_ if—"

Robin is on the floor coughing blood before he knows what hit him. God, Slade is fast. He can't get up before he feels a gloved hand yank on his hair, pulling his neck back painfully. Robin grits his teeth in anger. "I don't tolerate disrespect, boy. You should know that by now. Any longer and I may have to teach a more _permanent _lesson."

Robin doesn't want to know what that means and he hopes to god he never finds out as he gasps in Slade's hold. He could get out of it—has to resist the urge when it comes to Slade's fury. "Do you understand?" Slade says, fingers closing dangerously tight on Robin's throat. Robin coughs—

"Yes. Master."

"Good." Slade lets him go, leaving Robin gagging on the floor. "Pick up the papers." Robin fumbles around obediently near Slade's boots, face burning from the frustration, humiliation, and anger of it all. Slade is vicious and cruel—Robin's always known that—but here and now it's on a more personal level, one that stings more than ever.

_You're learning about him, _a deep part of Robin whispers, the one borne from Bruce's teaching, the one that stays up late nights with Slade plastered on the wall in front of him. Slade is brutal, but not unfair: he won't attack without the provocation of Robin's disobedience. While Robin has little hope for his friends' safety in the long term, he has some that if he cooperates, he won't get hurt.

It stings him on a level he never knew imaginable that he has to quite literally bow to Slade and call him "master" and obey his wishes. _Some effing hero you are_. It is, however, manageable, especially if he imagines all the things he's going to do to Slade: lock him up and never let him see the light of day for his crimes. For threatening his friends.

Robin holds onto the papers as Slade pulls up a diagram on the screen, much easier to see. He walks back to the dais, Robin trailing behind him as Slade sits—_lounges_—on the chair as if it were a throne.

"Sit," Slade says. There's not room on the chair, and Robin's expression must show confusion. Slade lets out a small laugh, so normal that it jars Robin for a moment to hear it coming out of the mouth of his worst enemy. "On the floor, boy. At my feet."

Robin's jaw works as he stands, face aching, in front of Slade. His eyes narrow.

His feet fold underneath him, face burning.

Trying to quell the feeling of being a child in kindergarten. As he stares at the information in front of him, he almost wishes he was.

"What am I _stealing_?" he can't resist asking.

"Look at the blueprint," Slade replies from so far above him. _It's a power play_, Robin reminds himself. _Don't let it get to you. He's doing it on purpose. He does _everything _on purpose_. "It's a laser gun powered by red kryptonite developed by Wayne Industries' Special Research division." Robin does. It's informative so far as he can understand it, sure, but it doesn't give him the information he really needs to know.

"What are we going to do with it?"

That strange, almost sincere laugh again. "_You_, boy, aren't doing anything but stealing it for me. The rest is none of your concern."

Robin frowns.

Kryptonite. Does Slade think he can take on Clark? Is he running a job for Luthor? Either way is bad news, nothing Robin wants to help with.

He doesn't have a choice. Robin will just have to pray that whatever harm he does will be mitigated by other, more successful heroes.

_Bruce will understand._

_Please understand._

/

Hours later, it blurs in his mind as Robin leans dejectedly against Slade's chair. Slade's solemn voice never lets up as he presses Robin relentlessly on every aspect of the information until Robin can see the floors in his mind and imagine the gun in his hand. Some small part of him wants to cry in frustration. It's easy enough to ignore.

Robin will _never _give Slade the satisfaction of seeing him cry. That's one thing he's sure about. Especially not over some stupid diagram.

He's actually relieved when Slade stands up and declares them finished, taking the papers from Robin's hands. He flips through them, making sure they're all there before pressing them into his belt—some of them still spotted with Robin's blood. Robin stretches, bending back as far as he can go and then forward to touch his toes. Halfway through he notices Slade regarding him silently with that one eye of his. Robin feels something crawl over his skin and he stops, suddenly feeling small.

Slade moves, and he follows. He's fed well today, swallowing down the flavorless food as best he can. Beggars can't be choosers—even when his eyes ache with lack of sleep.

Robin collapses into bed without even bothering to check for cameras, but anxiety keeps him awake. He _has _to find a way to get his friends away from Slade's clutches, considering that Slade intends to use his influence to the greatest effect. This just ups the ante more—but it gives Robin a chance to do something. He doesn't know quite what it will be, but—

He can feel the starvation and the fatigue eating away at his mind, even after such a short time. The exhaustion that comes from constant training isn't good either. Robin is young, but not so stupid that he doesn't notice Slade's attempts to break him down. Fear curls in him, ignored completely. _This is a chance I can't afford to waste._


End file.
